Do-Over

We leave Sunday for a trip to Florida to stay with our friend John. This is a "do-over" trip.   Last year Joe and I made our first ever trip to Florida (we live on the ocean here.....why bother, right?) and about 3 days in to our inaugural experience we got a phone call letting us know my Dad had passed away. John felt terrible and as a special act-of-love-I'm-so-sorry gift he promised us a "do over"  trip this year.

I'm not sure how I feel about going. The specter of last year's trip is kind of lurking out there... but the actual anniversary (thankfully) is a few weeks off.  Don't get me wrong -  I'm thrilled to get out of Dodge, pleased for Joe (who REEEALLLYY needs a break) and I'm even OK with ironing a pile of linen shirts to pack.  I've always found ironing to be very relaxing and therapeutic. What's the problem, then?   I just feel kind of sideways inside.

Physically, I'm ready to go. I splurged on a haircut and matching (we don't call it "coloring") and even managed to get my esthetician  to melt a metric ton of wax and do my eyebrows.  I look positively GIRLY.  Luckily, John is an expert at relaxing and entertaining.  I'll have a really good bloody Mary in my hand within moments of our arrival.  That should help with the mental part, right?

I'm sure it will all come together and be a great week.  Right? Right.

My Night at the Opera (House)

The Boston Opera House is a magnificent theater built in 1925 and recently renovated and restored to the tune of $50 million dollars. Friend-Joe is a huge fan of theater and as Husband-Joe is not, Friend-Joe is my perfect companion for a night of musical magic. Perfect because he not only pays for everything (woo hoo!) but he has impeccable taste (dinner at Blu before, dessert after) and all I have to do is take the train in to Boston and meet him there. I don't even have to drive home - he does!   Bonus - I was on a crowded Green Line train and since he arrived at the restaurant before I did he ordered my favorite martini and had it delivered just as I sat down.  My mother was right. Every woman needs 2 husbands - a straight one for sex, and a gay one for everything else.

The Opera House was filled to capacity (or at least it was after the first late-seating interval which brought in about 75 more people) for a production of Les Miserables. I was completely dismayed to learn you could (and were encouraged) to buy drinks at the lobby bar and take them in to the theater. Seriously?  You can't watch the first act without a drink in your hand?  Worse yet I kept hearing plastic cups fall to the floor as people finished their drinks.  I realize theaters are in desperate financial straits and the revenues from liquor must be a boon, but It felt like being in a crappy movie theater.

Late arrivals kept pouring in well into the first act. I'm amazed that so many people  would spend that much money on a ticket and be 20 minutes late for the show. Whatever. The first act was wonderful. At intermission, up came the lights and the following thing happened:

If you click on the fuzzy (sorry) picture, you can see everyone obsessively punching open their phones and checking their messages and email.  Whoa. I had my iPod touch in my purse (podcasts for the train ride) and snapped a quick picture of the ocean of obsession/compulsion surrounding me.  It made me very, very sad.

Then things got worse.  Everyone returned for the 2nd act (with their beverages properly replenished) and the 12-ish year old girl sitting next to me started leaning her head on (I'm guessing) her grandmother's shoulder and complained she did not feel well.  The grandmother (who was humming along off-key with the music) did not appear to care. Bitch had that "I've waited a year for this night and NOTHING is going to budge me" look on her face. (You'll agree with the use of the "B" word - keep reading).  I tried to concentrate on the show but when the girl started sipping water...and then spitting it up on the floor.....and heaving and spitting..... I wanted to be sucked into a black hole.  I knew if one whiff of that hit my nostrils I would be joining her pronto.  The grandmother?  She just kept patting the little girl on the back and humming (serious pitch problems) along with the show.  I was flabbergasted.  I was PISSED. Not only was she a pain in the ass with her humming, but  I could not believe she wasn't going to turf that poor child out of there pronto.  Then the poor girl started dry-heaving again in earnest and I must have jumped into Friend-Joe's lap because he whispered, "Do you want to go stand in back?" and I said, "Yes!" and we were out of our seats and up the aisle in a nanosecond.  We watched the last 10 minutes of the show from there and applauded the curtain calls as a sea of douchbags -  er - people stormed the exits like there was a raging fire. Show some courtesy, people, applaud the effort and appreciate the talent - it's a LIVE PERFORMANCE for pete's sake.  Then (and only then) the B-word grandmother comes sauntering up the aisle with her still-heaving, softly crying young charge and she looked at us,  shrugged her shoulders and said, "Accidents happen!" like it was nothing at all.  I was torn between whether I should call  Child Protective Services or  just bitch slap the woman right there. What a terrible thing to do to a child.

Walking back to Blu for dessert Friend-Joe and I talked about the decline of our civilization. The Boston Opera House was absolutely stunning - elegant, opulent, dripping in class. The audience was largely the complete opposite.  I am deeply disturbed by such a culture shift.  I found the movie-theater concessions and people bolting from their seats disturbing.  I've had to abandon movie theaters because I can't deal with all the talking, the flashing smart phones, texting, feet up on the seats -  and the trashy floors.  Now I have to abandon live theater?  I feel like I'm turning in to what I used to call an "Old Fart" but now I understand why older people want to stay home and be left alone.  I'm right there. RIGHT there. Honest.

Just Following Procedure

For the n-teenth time I recently found myself with an IV in my hand, a blood pressure cuff on my arm, an oxygen monitor on my finger, and my bare ass in the air awaiting yet another "procedure."  I got to thinking about a few things (good drugs can do that), my long medical history, how healthcare delivery has changed, and just when did surgery become  merely a "procedure"?

I always thought a procedure was a series of things you did in a certain order to accomplish something.  (To make a cake you must assemble the ingredients, follow the recipe, bake the thing, and at the end of all that effort you have a cake.  FYI - If you do any of that out-of-order you will NOT get a cake.)  There are procedures flight attendants follow for take-off, there is a procedure for building a house, and there is a procedure for doing your income taxes.

I believe the insurance companies got together and decided if they stop calling it "surgery" and start calling it a "procedure" it wouldn't sound like a big deal and they could kick people out of the hospital on the same day - or if it involved amputation, maybe the next day. Better yet - don't even go to a hospital at all! Let's do it all in the doctor's office -  it's just a "procedure" after all!  For anything involving anesthesia....we'll invent a surgical suite thingy where doctors can see patients in one room and go across the hall to the surgical suite for the "procedures." Bonus - let's not call it "anesthesia"  anymore (because you'd need an anesthetist for THAT) - let's call it "sedation".

See how they did that?  Who says health insurance needs reforming?

I would like some reform.  A  little.  An effort? I don't deal with any kind of anesthesia well, although I have been told I am a whole lot of fun when I am coming out of it. This time around  I was waking up in the "surgical suite" when I heard someone knocking on the door.  My response?  "Penny? Penny? Penny? PENNYPENNYPENNYPENNY?"  I thought it was hysterical.  No one else did. Apparently they felt the fact that I was laughing like a hyena meant that I was well enough to be put in a car and driven home.  This is Joe's least favorite part of "procedures" - the nausea fueled race to get back to Gloucester before I throw up in the car. (Sorry, graphic content.) It's awesome. It keeps our romance alive, baby.

I have come to believe we will soon see mobile procedure trucks coming to our

[caption id="attachment_2476" align="alignright" width="268" caption="We Were Trained For This in Our Youth!"][/caption]

homes (like those dog groomers) where they  fix you up in the truck right there in the driveway.  After you are finished you can get your mail and walk up the sidewalk right back in to your house (with the entire neighborhood seeing your bare ass sticking out of a procedure gown.  (They won't be called "hospital gowns"  because.... there won't be any hospitals.)

In addition to the Big Bang Theory, we watch a lot of House Hunters (hey, it's good comic relief). There are a LOT of people out there who think they can't buy a house if the color of the rooms isn't to their liking. ( I am not making that up. )  Can you imagine what that show will be like in the year 2019 when people have to look for a house that can accommodate a growing family and all of their "procedures"?  "I like the space, but I just can't see myself getting a pap smear /  knee replacement / appendix removed in a room that needs so much updating - and the wall color (eyeroll) ewww!"